Chapter 16: Details
Sherlock is awake and gone from bed when John opens his eyes the next morning. He flings out an arm and feels the warm nest he had just left. He smiles, thinking about the night before. That was ok, he thinks. That was better than ok. He prods at his conscience. Nope, no guilt or regret. Only a warm feeling, an itchy memory that makes him want to verify last night's conclusions. He sits and stretches, popping the wings out carefully, so as not to accidentally rearrange the room or bend his feathers again.
When John comes out finally, dressed and ready for the day, Mycroft is there, sitting in the red armchair before the fire. Sherlock is sitting in front of him, face blank, so that means he must be upset.
"Good morning, Mycroft," John says. He worries that calling the excessively formal man 'Mycroft' may be a gauche sort of liberty, but can't actually call him 'Mr. Holmes' without feeling even more socially inept. "Erm. I'm about to make some tea. Would you like...?"
Mycroft nods austerely back at him. "Good morning, Dr. Watson." Oops. Should have gone with 'Mr. Holmes'. "Tea would be lovely, thank you. Three sugars, no milk."
John comes back out several minutes later and distributes mugs. Mycroft and Sherlock are staring silently at one another, only minute twitches around their eyes indicating any communication. John is mystified. Sherlock eventually curls his lip and throws himself back into his chair, holding the mug carelessly. "Fine. I'll owe you," he says sulkily.
Mycroft parodies a smile, and pulls a folder out of his briefcase. He turns to John. "I have taken the liberty," he begins, pompous and stiff, "of reestablishing your identity. Your death has been erased from the files, and replaced with a description of an injury that had you invalided home. There will be a small pension associated with that, which should be beneficial in setting up a new life. Here are the identification and registration papers you should need. Legal documents, etc."
He hands over a fat manila envelope. John opens it up and peers inside. Lots of legal papers and certificates, a driver's license, a passport. Mycroft had been very thorough. "Thank you," John says, sincere and grateful. "I don't know how you managed it, but thank you."
"British government," Sherlock mutters sullenly, sotto voce. John casts him an inquiring look, but Sherlock is staring out the window.
"Six cases, Sherlock," Mycroft says. "Whatever I ask. Consider yourself on call. Without complaining about how boring they might be.
"Now. I have had another intriguing but rather unfortunate series of images brought to my attention this morning." Mycroft pulls out another folder and takes out several CCTV stills. John can see a blurry shot of what amounts to a dark lump with wide wings, silhouetted halfway down the height of Harefield Hospital. "You are not being careful or subtle about this Sherlock." His chiding look shifts sideways to encompass John. "I don't know what's going to happen if word gets out. I can only cover up so much, you know. Not to mention: falling off a building, Sherlock? Really? Are you losing your touch?"
His sarcasm is a cover for very real concern, however, and Sherlock squirms internally under his regard. However, he rigorously controls his body language, not to give anything away.
"It couldn't be helped," he said stiffly.
"And snogging on the lawn afterwards?" Mycroft prods cuttingly, toying with the handle of his umbrella.
"None of your business!" Sherlock jumps up. "Is that all? Because I think we're done now."
Mycroft rises, leisurely and unprovoked. "Be careful," he says, looking from Sherlock to John. "If word of... you... gets out, I will not be able to help you."
John nods, and clenches his fists around the blades of the knives he suddenly realizes he's manifested. Oops. Must have been feeling threatened. Mycroft watches as he flushes, and spins them away, clearing his throat. "Alright, then," he says. Then, lamely, "Thank you."
Sherlock begins to pace as soon as Mycroft has left. "We need to get back to the hospital," he says. "Send a text to Lestrade saying we've found some of the people involved." He stops and narrows his eyes. "Wait. Never mind. I don't want them underfoot yet. Let's go there first and see what we can unearth." He pauses, flicking his chin with the side of a finger for a minute before whirling around and gliding up to John, his face much closer than personal space allows. "John," he says, like he's having a revelation. "You're a doctor."
"Yes. Yes, I am. What about it, then?" John holds himself tall and aggressive, not backing down before Sherlock's height and intensity. His shoulders are back and his chin up. Sherlock's eyes soften almost imperceptibly.
"It's how you can get in to see Dr. Linley. The name on the door last night," he elaborates impatiently, when John looks momentarily blank.
"I remember," he says, nettled. "But... you want me to interview with him or something?"
"Precisely," Sherlock looks pleased that his hatchling is so quick on the uptake. "Arrange an appointment to discuss possible job opportunities, or some such." He paws through the papers Mycroft has delivered, tossing the stills of a dark blob with wings and four feet to the floor with artistic insouciance. Finally, he comes up with a Curriculum Vitae, and scans it over. "You're a surgeon specializing in abdominals, so that's perfect." He looks up and eyes John sharply. "You do remember enough to carry on a coherent interview?"
John scoffs at him. "Yes, Sherlock. I've been doing it for over 15 years, after all."
Sherlock shrugs. "Well. Some could say you're only a week old. Better to ask..." He shoves the CV into John's hands and says impatiently, "Well? Call!"
John does. He manages to schedule an appointment with the director for 5:30 that afternoon.
Lestrade stops by several hours later. "Sherlock," he greets, leaning in the door. "John, good to see you."
John and Sherlock return the greeting, and Lestrade is invited inside for tea. Sherlock gives him the rundown on what he's observed from the corpse in the morgue.
"The bruising indicates quite clearly that there were at least two people present during the murder. One was probably a man, close to my size, perhaps, with hands slightly smaller. I'm guessing about 175 centimeters, going from the span." Deducing the height could be bollocks, John thinks. Sherlock believes it's 175cm because they found and followed the man last night and saw how tall he was. But John holds his tongue. "He was the lure, and probably met his partner in the alleyway later. The partner did the knife-work, and was probably closer to John's height. Could be male or female, there's not enough data to theorize about it yet."
Lestrade thumps his head with the heel of his hand, disgusted. "Jesus," he huffs. "Why can't Anderson tease out information the way you can?"
It's a rhetorical question, but Sherlock answers anyway, "Because he's a vacuous idiot with nothing but dust motes between his ears, that's why. And an arse, to boot. Although, the latter is no excuse for his appalling investigative skills."
"Certainly doesn't seem to affect yours," John is fairly certain he hears Lestrade mutter under his breath. He quickly rolls in his lips, biting them hard to prevent a grin.
Sherlock ignores it and instead begins to lecture. "Organ transplants represent big money these days. Because of immunosuppressant therapy, it's become so successful that there's a severe shortage of donor organs. Do you remember the Alder Hey scandal in 1999?"
John nods. He'd been at Barts at the time, getting his license. All anyone talked about were the news reports about the children's hospital that had been harvesting from the bodies of every child that died in the hospital, storing them in containers for later transplants and study. Organs, whole fetuses, body parts, it was ghastly and heartbreaking. The doctor deemed responsible had escaped unscathed, for the most part, only being banned from practicing medicine in the UK. Over a thousand unidentified fetuses had been buried that year.
"After that, the Tissue Act of 2004 explicitly prohibited the sale of human organs," Sherlock continues. "Which means that the black market exploded. Medical tourism alleviates some of the demand. A very few countries, such as Iran, legally allow the sale of a redundant organ to settle debts, etc. But not here. The wait lists are long, and many people die while they wait. So it follows that: ...money talks. Kidneys can go for as much as 90,000, most of which is pure profit to the broker or doctor who's able to provide it. The woman we found on Sunday could have generated well over 300,000 worth of illegal organs."
He bounces on his toes, eyes alight. "I've got to do some research. Lestrade, have your monkeys look up financial records and transplant histories for Hereford Hospital."
"Hereford?" Lestrade asks. "What? Why Hereford?"
Sherlock grimaces at his obtuseness. "Because it's the busiest and most well-respected transplant center in the UK. Also, it's within a 10 minute ride from where the bodies were found. Transplants have a better chance of success the less time the organs are kept on ice. It is the logical place to start."
John waits for Sherlock to mention the chase last night, and the late night meeting in the Director's office, but it is not brought up. His eyes flash briefly to John's, as if to warn him to stay mute. John immediately affects an innocent expression and looks out the window.
"Get number of donors, patients on the wait list, surgeries completed, financial transactions of personnel. Surely I don't have to tell you how to do your job?" Sherlock's sarcasm is cutting.
"No. No, you don't," Lestrade answers in his gravelly voice. "I'll get on that. And you..." he glares at Sherlock. "Don't do anything without letting me know first. No going off on your own!"
Sherlock looks blameless. "Of course not." And with that, he turns his shoulder and flings himself down at the desk, opening the laptop. It is a clear dismissal.
John spends the rest of the afternoon wandering around, drinking tea, looking out the window and brushing up on the details of organ transplant surgery. He feels nervous at the thought of an interview. He clinks his thumbnail against the side of his mug as he looks down at the street below.
"You shouldn't worry about it, John," Sherlock says suddenly, looking up from where he's been hunched for hours. "It's not like you're actually trying to get a job. You're just gathering data."
John turns with a smile. "Do you read minds, then?"
He lets his gaze linger on the man at the desk. Sherlock is slouched in his chair, still wearing pajamas, wrapped in a royal blue dressing gown. He looks rumpled and vaguely delicious. His long, long legs are cast out to the side, slim pale feet extending them by half again, it seems. His hair is a wild thing with a life of it's own. He's been tugging on it frequently during his research. John feels a similar urge, but checks it. They have neither of them mentioned last night, and John isn't sure why that is. But he's not going to make the first move. No longer caught in the heat of the moment, he doesn't want to set himself up for rejection or humiliation.
"It takes no real effort to read yours, John," Sherlock replies. He stands, suddenly. "I'm going to get dressed. I need to go to the bank before it closes. I have to check out some transaction records. John, you'd better get ready, too."
"Let me check over your wounds first, Sherlock," John suggests. He might have an ulterior motive. He's been longing to lay his hands again on rangy muscles and endless lucent skin. Even better, it might get something started up. But Sherlock just huffs impatiently at him. "No, John. They're fine. It only been 15 hours." He stalks off towards the shower, and that's the last John hears of that. He sits dolefully down in his chair.
Before they go their separate ways Sherlock says, "Be careful, John. Remember, this is just to mine for data."
"Ta," John retorts, wounded. "I can take care of myself, yeah? I'll call you when I'm done." Before he steps through the door, though, Sherlock sweeps an arm around him from behind and grabs his chin, pulling him backwards until he's sculpted to Sherlock's front. He wraps his free hand around John's hip, pinning him close.
"Oi!" John is startled. Not enough to draw his knives. He's still very aware who's holding him. "Sherlock-"
"Hush," says Sherlock. "I'm just saying goodbye." Hitching John tighter against him, Sherlock exerts enough upward force on his chin to drag him to his toes, head strained back against the narrow shoulder behind him. John grabs his wrists but doesn't try to move them. He can feel Sherlock's fleeting smile against the skin of his cheek. And then, "Goodbye, John," Sherlock whispers into his ear. He gives the lobe a quick, sharp bite. John doesn't feel an erection behind him, but he is certainly becoming heated and heavy, pulled bowstring taut against Sherlock.
"Erm," he chokes. Sherlock puffs a laugh that has him shivering, and his lips just graze John's ear.
"Come straight home, won't you?" And then Sherlock shoves him out of the door to Baker St. and shuts it smartly after him.